


Black Ice

by FlyingMocha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMocha/pseuds/FlyingMocha
Summary: All this time, John had successfully kept his feelings to himself, and now a bit of ice had very nearly outed him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right... this is my first Sherlock piece ever, it's not beta'd, and I've only recently seen the first and second series, because it's dreadfully cold and rainy, and I was bored. It doesn't have a specific place to belong within the show's established timeline, my characters may be out of character, and the writing may be utter crap. But I had fun and I'm no longer bored!

"Go sit on the sofa, with your feet up," John instructed, stepping back to make room for his companion to pass by.

Sherlock let go of the stair railing and stretched his hand towards the doorframe, stumbling from one support to the next. "I need to look after my experiment," he responded tersely, then nearly fell as soon as he entered the flat and ran out of architectural features that could be pressed into service as a crutch. John shot him an irritated look, halfway wondering why the detective was even trying to act like all was well.

"You need to get that foot up before it swells further," John answered, giving his friend a gentle shove away from the kitchen and towards the sofa. "Otherwise your shoe might not fit for days, and then where will we be?"

"That experiment is very delicate, John," Sherlock explained, in that patronising tone that always made John feel like Sherlock thought John was goading him. "If I don't add precisely 0.84cc's of hydrochloric acid in the next ten minutes -- "

"Then exactly nothing will go wrong with it," John answered. "I'm well aware that if it were that time-sensitive, you wouldn't have begun it during a case. But if it will make you feel better, I will add the acid for you, right now."

Sherlock opened his mouth, prepared to argue, then stopped. "0.84, John, and not one molecule more. And then it must set perfectly undisturbed for 12 more hours." John rolled his eyes at the repeat instruction, but he measured the substance carefully and dripped it into the… er… whatever concoction Sherlock was experimenting on this time. 

The contents of the dish bubbled slightly and turned an alarming shade of periwinkle with the addition of a new ingredient, but settled down shortly thereafter. "Do you need me to tell you what it looks like now?" he called towards the doorway as he watched.

"No," Sherlock answered. "It didn't explode. That's all I need to know for this step."

"Explo--" John almost asked, then decided it really wasn't the sort of question he'd want an answer to. He shook his head as if to clear it, and collected his things. Medical kit that Sherlock couldn't be arsed to put away after he'd stolen it from his bedroom, sack of frozen corn that Mrs Hudson, for some reason, believed they would be willing to ingest. Or maybe this was precisely the use she had in mind when she'd bought it.

"Let's see the ankle," John instructed. Sherlock made to ignore him, reaching for a nearby book. "Sherlock," John snapped. "Did you say, again, just tonight, that I'm your doctor?"

"Only to keep that nosey bystander from--"

"Did you?!" John asked, now noticeably closer to yelling. Sherlock glanced at him, clearly irritable.

"Yes," he answered in a tone that John was never sure if it was haughty or guilty.

"Then as your doctor, I am ordering you to take your shoe and sock off, right now." Sherlock stared him down for a moment, then very slowly and deliberately removed his left shoe, then peeled off the sock underneath. "Very funny. And now the other one." Sherlock started to argue, something about how he should have been more precise in his original request, but John simply cocked his head and waited. After a momentary battle of stubborn glares, his flatmate began removing the other shoe with a huffy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a concealed grunt of pain.

John's experience in dealing with the most horrifying trauma, and the most gruesome mundane clinic complaints, really didn't do much to prepare him for the sight of the swollen, purplish-blue, possibly misshapen ankle he was staring at. He gasped, then covered it over with a harsh sigh. Something about the injury being attached to his best friend, made it seem like the worst thing he'd ever seen. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "but that looks worse than I expected. I've got to touch it to make a proper examination."

"If you must," Sherlock answered, sitting back on the sofa. John reached tentatively, only to be thwarted when Sherlock jumped with a distressed moan.

"I haven't even touched you yet, you big jessie," John groused, grabbing his friend by the shin to prevent further hassle. "Wasn't even that serious, you just fell on a bit of ice. Worst of the injury is probably to your pride." With that, he touched the injured ankle properly, prodding and stroking over the various bones, looking for signs in both the injury and Sherlock's reaction to the exam, that would help differentiate a sprain from a break. Sherlock jumped and let out a squeak at one particularly tender spot. "Sorry, love," John muttered, wincing in empathetic pain. "Sorry, sorry," he practically chanted as he continued. "Almost done, then we'll ice it and I'll get you some paracetamol." As promised, John put the bag of corn on Sherlock's twisted ankle, then went to the loo for pills.

Which was where he was when he realised what he'd said. _Sorry, love? Really??_ Oh god, what if Sherlock had noticed… maybe he hadn't; typically he coped with pain by turning the self-absorption to maximum strength, and it's not as if he was any good at understanding romantic hints in the first place. But… oh god. John blew out a frustrated breath. All this time, he'd successfully kept his feelings to himself, and now a bit of black ice had very nearly outed him. Well, only one thing to do now. Make use of his military training to keep firm control over himself, and ignore the slip-up as ferociously as possible. He carefully returned his expression to a cringe-free neutral one as he fished two pills out of the bottle.

"I'm fairly sure it's just a sprain," John pronounced as he returned, mostly to fill the space before anything more awkward could occur. "But to be safe, keep as much weight off it as possible for the next 48 hours. You can use my cane," he said, retrieving the long-forgotten device from the corner and adjusting it to suit Sherlock. If this had been any other friend he had a crush on, it would alarm him that he was so intimately acquainted with the other person's height and arm length. With Sherlock, however, who couldn't be bothered to wash his own laundry, it seemed only natural to know the man's measurements well enough to know how he'd prefer his cane. "Put the corn back in the freezer after twenty minutes, and for the love of Pete, Sherlock, you have a bed, please use it. I don't want to wake up and trip over you sleeping wherever you happen to collapse." He could hear the snarky remarks as he cleaned his teeth in the bathroom, but John had long ago learned to tune them out, merely hearing the sarcastic tone that -- when he didn't clutter it up by actually listening to the words -- amused him so completely.

John wished Sherlock a good night as he closed his bedroom door, and then flung himself into his bed for his requisite ten hours apart from his flatmate. In spite of his crush on the younger man, he enjoyed this quiet time to read, relax… play candy crush, if he wanted… all without sarcastic interruption. It refreshed him, leaving him free to more fully appreciate Sherlock's company during the days. Tonight, he'd already decided, he wanted to read a book on the messy, fallible nature of brain function, a portion of the body that it turns out Sherlock might be right to treat with suspicion. With a tired smile, he opened his book and settled in.


	2. Chapter 2

The room had gone dark, his timer-controlled reading lamp having turned itself off. At first, John had no idea why he was awake. He'd had no nightmare. He was in pyjamas, under the covers, not physically uncomfortable, not in desperate need of the loo. Even the book that he'd apparently dropped when he'd fallen asleep was laying harmlessly on his chest; it hadn't hit him in the face as sometimes happened.

Presently, his phone vibrated loudly on his nightstand. John considered ignoring it, but another vibration made him reach out and check his messages. All thirteen of them. From Sherlock. Ah. So that's why he was awake.

_Come downstairs._

_I need help._

_Please come immediately._

_Serious problem._

_Bordering on emergency._

_John?_

_John!_

_John John John_

_Interesting. While most words lose all meaning at approximately the 12th repetition, your name does so on only the fifth. I should research this further._

_Anyway, John! (That's even worse than 5 repetitions.) Your assistance is required!_

_Don't make me start shouting._

_Mrs Hudson won't appreciate it at this hour._

_John, please._

John's body immediately started producing adrenalin. With Sherlock, he was never sure if an emergency meant that a metric crapload (or are craploads measured in imperial units..?) of assassins were trying to kill him in the kitchen, or that he needed help picking up a pencil that had rolled slightly further away from him than he cared to stretch his fingers. Choosing to err on the side of caution, John practically ran down the stairs -- into a lit room. Sherlock hadn't turned off the lamp by the sofa. He hadn't even gone to bed, the berk. John rolled his eyes at the sight of his flatmate staring up at him expectantly from his place on the sofa, a sack of room-temperature, mushy corn laying on the floor beside him. So, probably closer to the pencil thing than the assassin scenario.

"Sherlock, I told you to go to bed."

The irritating man shrugged. "I was comfortable."

"What's the emergency?" John asked, frowning. "You went to all that trouble to wake me, and I don't see anything wrong."

"I need the loo," he announced. John waited for a beat, in case Sherlock planned to elaborate, although he wasn't sure why he thought that might happen.

"And..?"

"And I require your assistance to get there, obviously."

John groaned in dismay. "Cane," he said, pointing harshly. "That's why I gave it to you."

"You said it might be broken," Sherlock countered. "Given the percent of breaks misdiagnosed as sprains when examined without benefit of x-ray, and the importance of my being able to give chase, I prefer not to take the risk that -- look, you're here, so you might as well help me." John stood still for a moment, clenching his teeth so as not to say the first thing that came to mind. Sherlock was merely being Sherlock after all, and John had long ago made the choice to endure the less pleasant elements because on the whole, the good outweighed the bad. After he'd reminded himself of that fact, he stretched one hand out towards the detective.

Sherlock used the hand not to pull himself up, but to drag John closer and paw his way up the shorter man's body like a large cat climbing a small tree. He threw an arm around John's shoulders, using his body as a crutch. He nearly took the both of them down with the first step, leaning heavily into John with a barely-suppressed whimper. "It's just gone a bit stiff," John said, tone suggesting that he wasn't impressed by all this fuss over a sprain. Still, he held on a little tighter, providing steady support as they made their way down the world's longest hallway. John was sure that yesterday it was only about four steps from end to end, but right now, it might as well have been a mile.

Taking small, careful steps that a less generous person might call shuffling, they worked their way to the bathroom, where Sherlock grasped the sink to help him hobble about the small space. John briefly wondered, as he stood outside the bathroom trying not to listen to his flatmate have a rather long wee, where his life had gone so horribly wrong. Then again, he also wondered where it had gone so right, what he might have done to deserve these past few years chasing after a blindingly brilliant madman with a carefully-concealed heart of gold… and just a bit of a deranged sense of morality. Which of course John was expected to moderate, as part of his role as Sherlock's human credential, the thing that verified his immense worth. After all, if an honourable, loyal man such as John could lo--live and work with him, and find intrinsic value in Sherlock, then it must be there, even if others couldn't quite see it.

John's thoughts were cut short when Sherlock emerged, hands still damp from washing, because of course he could never be bothered to dry them. Why dirty a towel that then Sherlock _(ahem, John)_ would have to wash, when air-drying required no maintenance labour? It wasn't that John couldn't see the wisdom of that theory, of course. It was just that at that specific moment, he would have preferred not to have a wet patch on his pyjama shirt, or a cold, clammy hand wrapped around his forearm. After a two-minute eternity, the pair finished the shuffle from the loo to Sherlock's bed, just around the corner. "Can you examine it again?" Sherlock asked. "I'd like to ensure no harm occurred during our ill-advised travel."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, all we did was walk down the hall, and I did most of that," John grumbled, but already, he pulled back his friend's trouser leg. There would be no shutting him up if he didn't get what he wanted, after all. This time, John was slightly less gentle as he prodded, and Sherlock was slightly less good at keeping his displeasure to himself. But, this time John also noticed something he hadn't before. He poked at that spot again. Normal? Broken and misaligned bone? Or just knotted muscle? Probably muscle since it wasn't there earlier… right? Had he examined the top of Sherlock's foot when he checked it earlier? It wasn't, strictly speaking, part of his ankle, but the bruising extended here. Surely he'd checked… or had the bruising spread since they'd gotten home? He rubbed at the same spot on Sherlock's other foot, then went back to the injured one. Hmm.

"It feels fine," John lied, hoping that they could at least sleep a bit before he had to decide if that spot was concerning.

"Fibbing," Sherlock responded almost instantly. John rolled his eyes. Why did he even bother? It was a question he asked himself so many times a day, since agreeing to this flatmate arrangement, and yet he completely lacked the capacity to regret the initial decision.

"It might be a bit not right," he answered more honestly. "Probably not, though. Probably tense muscles from your fall. Be gentle with it until morning, and I'll have another look."

"What if I need the loo again?" Sherlock asked.

John blew out a world-weary sigh. "Then you'll use the cane that I'm going to give you, again. Just be careful, and you'll be fine."

"Careful?" Sherlock asked, pronouncing the word almost as if it were new to him. "You _have_ met me, right?" John stared at his flatmate, simply waiting for him to say whatever he was thinking. Because of course he was thinking something; John had long ago learned how to recognise that in even the blankest expression. "You might as well stay here," Sherlock said a moment later. "Otherwise, I'll simply have to text until you wake up, when I next need the loo. Which will happen, as I had entirely too many cups of tea to make it through the night."

John closed his eyes, willing reality to shift, mostly because he couldn't even make sense of the conflicting thoughts bouncing around in his head like a thousand super bouncy balls. It was a feeling that, disturbingly, he'd come to accept as normal since having moved in with Sherlock, but that didn't make it any less disconcerting to realise that he had so many thoughts that he couldn't put words to them.

"You do not need me to stay here," John argued.

"Of course I do," Sherlock responded. Clearly, the matter was settled, at least in his mind. John sighed. Argue about it, eventually give in, and stay in Sherlock's room? Or don’t argue about it, and stay in Sherlock's room? Or go to bed and lie there listening to him throw things at the ceiling and text him all night long, but John didn't consider that a viable option.

He sighed, choosing the option that offered the fastest way back to sleep. "I'll just go get my pillow and blanket," John muttered.

"I have pillow and blanket right here," Sherlock countered. John turned to respond, but before the counterpoint could form in his mind, Sherlock reached over and tugged the far corner of the blanket down in an inviting gesture. Oh god. Sherlock wasn't asking him to sleep on the floor next to his bed -- although that was completely within the realm of possibility, with him. He was asking him to sleep in it. Next to him. Under the same blanket. Because this would end so well, John thought as he eased between the sheets. Not because he was remotely comfortable with sharing a bed with someone he had a bit of a crush on, nor because he was eager to be kicked to death by his overgrown child of a flatmate, but quite simply because Sherlock had finally pushed him to the point that he was genuinely too tired for this shit.

"Oh god," he groaned as soon as his head landed on the pillow.

"I like nice things," Sherlock retorted in defence of his textile preferences.

"Not complaining," John responded. "Just… feels good after how sore I got, chasing you around London for the past two days. Three days. However long it's been." John fell quiet for a moment, letting the dim room soothe his weary nerves. Given Sherlock's current predicament, John had elected to forgo perfect darkness in favour of leaving the light on in the loo. "How's your ankle handling the weight of the blanket?"

"Not well," Sherlock answered, more honestly than John thought he'd meant to. "I'll have to sleep on my side, I suppose." Supremely irritated at this point, John endured the motion as Sherlock threw himself onto his side, but before he got a chance to fire off a snide remark, Sherlock's arm draped over his chest.

_What the hell?_ His irritation gave way to profound confusion. _Seriously, what the hell?_ For possibly the first time in his life, John found himself utterly speechless. "What the hell?" Oh, hey, there was some speech… of a sort, anyway.

Sherlock instantly retracted his limbs, looking completely perplexed. "You called me your love, earlier, when you were examining me. One of those ridiculous attempts at verbal comfort that people are so keen on. Was -- was this not what that was about?"

Damn it all. John pursed his lips. He'd hoped that if he blew right past that little mishap, Sherlock would follow suit, either because he'd deduced that John expected him to or because it was The British Way. In retrospect, he wasn't sure why he thought either of those reasons was good enough for Sherlock to do anything. "Er…" he said, knowing it was a waste of what little energy he had left, to feign ignorance.

"I researched this, after you went to bed earlier," Sherlock continued. "I'm fairly certain I'm doing it right, so…" John burst into hysterical laughter, turning to smother his face in the pillow so he wouldn't wake Mrs Hudson. Laughter being contagious, Sherlock began to chuckle along with him, although he was clearly confused about what was so hilarious.

"Of course you did," John said between chuckles once he'd forced himself to (mostly) calm down. "What is the 'this' that you researched, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How to use gestures to indicate love," he answered disdainfully, as if that should have been obvious.

"You really don't understand humans, do you," John mused from his place nearly face-down on the pillow. "Or love."

"Never needed the information before," Sherlock answered. "But I do now, because however stupid and pointless it is, I'm unable to control the chemical production, and this is the best way of handling it."

"If that was a declaration of love, it was the most tortuously convoluted one I've ever heard," John said testily, then frowned at himself. What if that's exactly what it was? Sure, Sherlock was likely the most sarcastic, dark-humoured person ever born, but that didn't make him immune to vulnerability. If anything, it indicated a depth of sentimentality and emotional intensity that even the stupid masses would want to suppress as a self-preservation tactic. John took a breath and looked at his friend's face. Immediately, a part of him wished he hadn't. Sherlock's eyes had gone soft, tinged with concern, like they had at the pool, when he realised John's life was in danger… that he could lose, truly lose forever, someone for whom he cared. A subtle look, certainly, but for someone whose entire emotional range fell somewhere between a manic sort of boredom and a manic sort of glee at a gruesome crime scene, that look meant a tremendous amount.

John's mind suddenly drew him back to that excruciatingly long moment at the pool. Moriarty had known. He knew Sherlock cared for him, even called him the detective's pet. Knew that Sherlock had a heart, even threatened to use it against him -- by threatening John, he realised suddenly. He remembered the intensity of Sherlock's eyes, the way his fingertips trembled, the fear John could see within him, in a way that normal threats on his life _(and how screwed-up a phrase is that?!)_ didn't.

"It was, wasn't it?" John asked, softly. Sherlock peered at him, the concerned look having given way to a more blank stare, the kind that meant whatever feelings he was experiencing had been deemed a distraction, and had been neatly folded into whatever little box in his mind palace that Sherlock crammed feelings into. "I hope so," John said, deciding on a whim (a well-educated whim, at least, but it was) to try drawing Sherlock's feelings back to the surface by making himself vulnerable, as well. "I really hope so."

For a moment, the only movement in the room was the almost imperceptible shifting of John's ribcage as he breathed, envisioning himself drawing courage from the oxygen. Then the detective's eyes went a little bit rounder, a little bit bigger -- a little bit more curious-looking than before. John knew that one, as well. Surprise, carefully restrained, with a slight upward twitch of the corner of his mouth, suggesting that this was a good surprise. John immediately yanked his flatmate into a hug, not entirely sure he wouldn't get slapped for impertinence, but, well, he'd been through worse.

"I have just one question," Sherlock said, his words slightly muffled by being awkwardly pressed against John's shoulder.

"Anything," John said, sniffling back tears of happiness.

"It's not that I'm disinterested, of course. But, why is sexual activity a prerequisite for conversation?"

John froze, then loosened his grip and pulled back, his brow creasing in confusion. "What are you on about?"

"My research shows that sexual activity must occur immediately before a couple is able to engage in intimate discussion, and other than the obviously reduced inhibitions brought on by the endorphin high, I can find no reason for this."

"Intimate discu… Sherlock, did you try to teach yourself the definition of pillow talk?" John asked, still feeling as though he was groping in the dark for the topic of discussion. In a room full of black wooden furniture and spilt Lego bricks. Barefoot. Fortunately, Sherlock nodded, and John laughed in relief. "You don't have to have sex first," he reassured his friend. "I suppose a lot of people do, but it's not required. You never have to do anything you're not comfortable with, Sherlock. If you want to talk all night long, I will. If you want to lay here and hold hands to do it, or go sit in our chairs, or stand on your head in the loo to talk, I would."

"That's irrational," Sherlock pointed out. "Standing on one's head can -- "

"Yes, I know," John said. "It was a colourful way of saying that whatever you want to do, I would do it with you, even if it's completely irrational."

"What do you want to do?" Sherlock asked. "You said you'd do whatever I want, but what about your wants? Surely they matter as well." John blinked, then sent up a silent word of thanks to whoever owned the website on which he'd done his research.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John said. "Conversation would be a good place to start. I'd like to know what you have in mind… whether this is a serious interest or just a bit of fun."

"I don't do anything just for a brief bit of fun," Sherlock interjected, "and I don't do anything partway. Waste of energy, both of them. And I'd like to talk without sex, this time. We can try it the conventional way next time."

John snickered at that. "I can agree to that plan," he answered as they settled into less of a desperate hug and more a sustainable sort of cuddle. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to pull back from their embrace to give a confused frown. "What?"

"Valentine's Day, Sherlock," John explained patiently. "It's after midnight, thus, the fourteenth of February, and therefore… Valentine's Day. You do know what that is, right?"

"Of course I do, John, don't be stupid. It's never mattered before."

"You've never had a valentine before?" John asked, though he was certain he already knew the answer. He might feel just a bit sad for Sherlock, except that it was easy to imagine a young Sherlock never experiencing teenage romance, and he found himself weirdly pleased at the idea that he could be Sherlock's first (and hopefully only) of so, so many experiences in life. So when the detective predictably shook his head no, John merely smiled. "Well, now you do. And we're supposed to be talking, so would you like me to tell you when I first knew I loved you?"

Sherlock smiled, that lovely, trusting one that only John seemed able to provoke. "I already know the answer to that," he said, blending his usual attitude with child-like wonder.

"Yeah?" John asked, smiling back. "Then you can tell me about it." He let himself be lulled into relaxation by the sound of Sherlock's voice as he did, indeed, tell John that, and many, many more things as they talked the remainder of the night away.


	3. Chapter 3

John flinched at the way a lampshade rattled when Sherlock slammed the door behind them. He'd known since yesterday that this would come, but now he discovered that he'd been holding out irrational hope that it would happen at a more convenient time than at nearly midnight when they'd been awake for about forty hours.

The case had brought mixed results. They'd solved it and the killer was in custody; that was a win. The two murders that occurred before Sherlock got the call, were in the past and couldn't be prevented. They'd saved the life of the intended victim the killer had abducted just as they were closing in on solving the case. A definite win, that. That was more than a bit wonderful. But the eleven-year-old boy the killer had abducted in between, the reason they'd received the call to help…

John didn't even try to suppress a shudder at the memory of finding the child's lifeless body.

It wasn't the first time they'd tried and failed to prevent a death during a case. Early on, John had been shocked at Sherlock's lack of empathy when it did happen, shocked and maybe just a tad horrified that he'd carried on without so much as a moment of silence in his single-minded focus on "the game". Afterwards, however, Sherlock had locked himself in his room and completely broken down. The sound of him throwing things about had so alarmed John that he'd picked the bedroom door lock and barged in, only halfway relieved to find that the detective was only throwing the contents of his laundry basket at the walls. He'd flown into a special sort of rage when he saw John watching his tantrum, but after only a few moments he'd run out of steam and collapsed on the floor, in tears.

It had been the first time John ever really touched Sherlock, kneeling to wrap a comforting arm around him. The whole thing was so unbelievably un-British that John couldn't believe he was doing it, but the fact that Sherlock leant into him instead of punching him told John he'd made the right choice. Sherlock, John realised in that moment, wasn't cold, unfeeling, or lacking empathy for the victim he'd failed to save. He simply refused to allow any distraction from his mission, setting aside his feelings for later. Even his choice to view each case as a sort of intellectual game was partly about maintaining distance, keeping himself objective and pragmatic. Underneath it, though, the detective cared more than he wanted to admit, for the public who he worked so hard to protect, and he grieved deeply for each precious life lost due to his inability to solve every case instantly.

Now that they were partners in every sense of the word, John expected that he'd probably witness Sherlock's grief a lot more close-up than ever before. Which at least explained why, as soon as he'd entered their flat and closed the door, Sherlock pushed their coats both off their shoulders, allowing the garments to pool at their feet, and started pawing at him, one leg creeping up as if he was trying to climb John. 

"Oh, love…" John muttered. He caught the leg that was wrapping around his body, using it as a handle as he hefted Sherlock's weight up. Silently thanking the army for every weight-lifting exercise he'd ever been forced to perform, he balanced his partner on one cocked hip. Overly long limbs wrapped around him from seemingly every direction as John used his right hand to help support Sherlock's bum and the left to rub his back gently. Somehow, the taller man managed to scrunch up enough to bury his face in the shoulder of John's knit jumper.

"Oh, love," John repeated, knowing from experience that there was nothing else he could say. He couldn't say it was okay, even though it was okay for Sherlock to be fallible. He couldn't say the boy was in a better place, because John wasn't in the habit of speaking authoritatively on matters in which he lacked appropriate expertise. He couldn't even offer the usual words of comfort, as Sherlock's grief was altogether different from that of a bereaved loved one. No, John had yet to figure out quite what would work, other than… well, this.

John realised that somewhere along the way he'd taken to rocking gently from one foot to the other as he moved to the kitchen, making tea one-handed while he cradled the man whose tendency to act like an overgrown child, for once, was actually a bit on the reasonable side. Sure, the intensity of his emotional response was overwhelming, but the intensity of Sherlock himself is overwhelming. Why would a horrified Sherlock be any less intense than a happy Sherlock? John awkwardly filled two mugs, then grabbed both handles in one hand and made his way quickly to the bedroom before his body could force him to admit that carrying his lover was actually a bit much for him.

Once they entered the sanctuary of their room, Sherlock finally came to life a bit, touching one foot to the floor briefly as he transitioned from John's arms to his bed… their bed, now. John quickly rummaged in the wardrobe, grabbing the first thing he saw in Sherlock's pyjama drawer and tossing it across to the bed. He'd learned this routine the hard way.

The second time they'd experienced a mid-case death, John had expected the tantrum. He'd brought tea, only to be clocked by a flying shoe as Sherlock vented his feelings at his clothing. When he'd sat down to regain his wits after the surprising but mild blow, Sherlock had surprised them both by grabbing John and pulling him halfway across the bed. He'd wriggled his way into the confused doctor's arms, then fell silent for a minute before sobs of grief shook him so hard that John clung to him in sheer shock. He'd tried to untangle himself when Sherlock fell into a distraught sort of sleep an hour later, but the detective had made a displeased sound as he woke up, pulling John close again. After the third such attempt, John gave up on going to bed that night, and simply slept in Sherlock's room.

John had developed a routine, after that second experience, one that he hoped he would never need again, each time he had to employ it. Shuffle Sherlock into his bedroom, give him his cosiest pyjamas, make tea, change into pyjamas, all the while listening for the thumps of various articles being thrown, as Sherlock fumed angrily at his own humanity. Wait for both shoes in particular before entering the room. Then, spend rest of night comforting the brilliant detective whose anger gave way to grief almost as soon as the mug of tea was pressed into his hands.

Now that they were partners, the routine had apparently shifted. Make tea with boyfriend clinging on like a terrified toddler, John amended. Deposit boyfriend on bed and tea on nightstand, then rummage for two sets of pyjamas. Sherlock liked to change clothes as quickly as possible after cases like this, as if he could strip off his upset along with his polished, posh daytime attire.

Some things hadn't changed now that the downstairs bedroom had become theirs, though, he observed. The shoes still got angrily launched at the wardrobe door, but this time instead of impacting a closed door, they slammed into a partially open door, which then swung around and whapped John on the back as he was rummaging for night clothes. John mentally amended his strategy for the next time that, as always, he hoped would never come.

John steered clear of Sherlock as he continued throwing things around. Some things were easier about this, as partners. John liked that he was more able to keep watch, as he changed clothes and prepared himself for the long night ahead. Not that it achieved much, but he felt better knowing what was going on. Once he ran out of sartorial ammunition, Sherlock grabbed John's pillow and hugged it while he waited. John wondered if that was new, or if he'd always done that with the pillow that used to merely be spare, while he waited. John hurried to finish changing, climbing up to sit against the headboard. Sherlock required no encouragement to cuddle against him. It was like having an oversized child, John observed as he cradled the taller man's upper body.

"Tea," John muttered after a minute, reaching out to grab Sherlock's mug. The detective took two mindless sips before passing it back and letting the sobs win. John clung as tightly as he could. He no longer worried that Sherlock would shake himself apart with the strength of his own emotion, but John had discovered along the way that his tight grip was soothing to the younger man. "I'm here, love," he said softly, several times as his hand slid over his partner's back and shoulder in a gentle, random sort of massage. John counted it an honour that he was even permitted to see this, let alone offer comfort throughout. An error, Sherlock called human emotion, which some people took to mean that he, lacking the capacity to experience it himself, saw himself as more advanced, more evolved perhaps, than most everyone else.

John knew the truth, however. Sherlock called emotion an error because it so infuriated him that he wasn't impervious to it. No matter how hard he tried, John had figured out, Sherlock couldn't stop the feelings from coming. He could suppress them for a time, delay the experience, but not prevent it entirely. The best he could do was conceal this fact from others -- except John, who he had evidently decided was stuck dealing with it. Somehow, John couldn't bring himself to feel imposed upon. In increments over the next twenty or so minutes, he slid down the headboard, reclining more and more until they were both in bed properly.

The doctor stretched his arm out to turn off the light, plunging them into the almost-darkness of a room lit by only the lamp he'd left on at the other end of the hall. This, too, was part of the routine. Don't make it entirely dark, because it would only worsen the fright with which Sherlock would wake from the nightmares that would plague his restless sleep. Don't make it too bright; it'll only interfere even more with sleeping. Don't even suggest a bath, even though Sherlock, like so many people, found great comfort in the perhaps womb-like watery environment of the tub. Oh, he would want to soak in the tub, with John wrapped around him, but Sherlock would ask when he was ready for that. Usually, it was a sign that his grief was about to break, as if the worst had passed and now he needed to wash away the remnants. But until that point, all John could do was hold on and be there.

He smiled when he felt Sherlock's hand reach up, fingers rubbing at his scalp, eagerly plunging into the short hair that John refused to admit might be going slightly grey. Being petted like a cat, this was new, and probably a good sign. "…glad you're here," Sherlock muttered after a moment. It was obvious by his tone that he was most of the way asleep already. Definitely a good sign.

"I'm glad you let me be with you," John answered.

"Love you," the detective slurred more than muttered, followed by a soft snore. Knowing that the slightest sound could wake Sherlock at this stage, John mouthed the words back silently, breathing in the detective's scent as he, too, sought escape in sleep.


End file.
